


Prom Night

by caffeinatedlyyours



Category: GOT7
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Marvel Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatedlyyours/pseuds/caffeinatedlyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Jackson are hanging out at their high school prom and of course shenanigans start when Jackson declares himself the best wingman to exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prom Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> -Rin

High school prom is lame.

I know it.

My best friend, Jackson, knows it.

The overly zealous wannabe prom queen who is going around and telling people even few seconds to vote her for prom queen, knows it.

Hell, even my non-existent date would know it and she doesn’t even exist.

Yet, we all are here. Standing around in our cramped high school gym, watching sweaty done up bodies grind against each other in desperate hope that the night will end in a bed of some kind. A car if they get really lucky and their date actually wants to screw them.

“Dude. You know you’re going to have to get off this wall and wink at some ladies eventually,” Jackson points out as he nurses his third cup of spiked punch. I withhold comment about his drinking habits because I know he can hold his alcohol well. However, I don’t forget to thank the heavens that I won’t be needing to carry his drunk, puke covered body home with fabricated lies attached to his person as we stagger to the front door.

Bothersome disco lights flash over his smothering auburn eyes before climbing up the wall behind us, barely grazing his still wet hair. We watch the crowd in front of us with mild interest sitting at our feet. But there wasn’t much to see.

There were couples staggering to the bathrooms for a quickie, while others were forgoing any thoughts privacy and making out in a corner in hopes that the teachers wouldn’t catch them. Clumps of people standing around either talking, complaining about the heat or trying to get into someone’s pants. The teachers were wishing they could be spending their Saturday night, _not_ having to witness or in some cases, stop a bunch of hormonal teenagers from making bad choices.

“Whatever man. I’m not going to. I’m too tired to pursue the opposite sex tonight.” I snort, humoring him. Because, of course he isn’t being serious at all and would probably lecture me for hours on edicate and decency if I stood a few inches too close to a damsel. Jackson was through and through a gentleman’s gentleman. But that still didn’t stop him from joking around and being moronic.

Jackson smirks and gets this look that shouts at me he’s working up to a stupid sentence. And his face promises that it’ll be at a state-of-the-art level of dumbassery. “You’re getting uptight and lonely,” he starts, wetting his lips. Savoring the build and peaked interest that I know is clinging to my face. “And the only cure to that, is getting laid. So, Mark Tuan, you are getting laid tonight with the help of the best wingman ever.” (Yeah. Hi. Forgot to introduce myself. My name is Mark Tuan. I’m seventeen, male, and not a complete dumbass. Nice to meet you.)

“If you’re the best wingman ever, it is a true wonder how the human race has continued to survive.”

“Just shut up and let me work my magic.” He waggles his fingers at me before looking around for his first suggestion. “How about her? She looks like she doesn’t have a date.” he reasons, pointing to a girl across the room who, like us, is leaning against the wall. Her ruby hair is curled in loose waves that cascades down her back in a glossy waterfall. Her dress is a minty blue that matches her eyes. And her eyes are framed with a smoky charcoal that have lines of gold cutting across the black. It’s sad that she looks beautiful for no one in particular. Seeing her, my resolve about not mixing with the girls tonight crumbles a bit. Which is odd because she is the first girl Jackson had picked. _Maybe I am getting uptight and lonely_ , I think in a wistfully sardonic way.

I’m about to tell Jackson that she seems fine so I can give her someone to be beautiful for, when I see a male classmate of ours walk past her. I don’t miss the shy blush and how her dismal eyes follow him when he falls into another girl’s arms. Her blue eyes crumble. I could go comfort her and be her get away for the night, but in doing so, I would give her a what-if. A what if instead of going with me and chasing the guy that she liked, would have the night ended the way she’d always pictured? _Besides_ , I tell myself, _that’s not how love works anyway. You can’t distract yourself forever._

“No. She’s busy.” I shake my head.

“Sure she is.” His voice is saturated with so much sarcasm, that it drips and makes a medium sized puddle around our feet, soaking the poor mild interest. But before I can explain her situation, he moves on. “How about her?”

I look. Unremarkable and normal seeming until she stands up and almost topples over, her red Solo cup capsizing in her shaky hand and splashing its spiked contents on the dirty gym floor.

“Too drunk.” I feel the need to point out the obvious. “She’d probably just end up puking on me.”

“Fair point.” Jackson says eyeing her warily. “Do you think she’ll make it through the night?” His voice nudges me to worry about her too.

“Not sure. You want to ask for a teacher?”

“Yeah. I don’t really like the way those jocks are looking at her.” His voice hardens. He leaves to go get a teacher, and I watch him move through the throng of bodies to our science teacher who is looking barely attentive and probably even had a few sips of the spiked punch. He nods when Jackson tells him about the drunk girl and swiftly stands up to follow him. A phone call later and she is on her way home.

Jackson comes back and we are breathing sighs of relief. But we don’t miss how the punch bowl is now missing from the dessert table. Now prom is not only lame, it is dangerous too.

I think it’s about time to go home, but Jackson has other plans. He points out a few more girls, but I shoot them all down.

“Fine. Die lonely.” He is suddenly sulking. “I’m never going to be an uncle.”

I wince. Jackson and I have been buddies since grade school and I did promise a kid that he could be the ‘cool’ uncle too. “Sorry bro, I just not really a ladies’ man.” I apologize.

“Nah. You never were for this scene anyway. This partying-one-night-stand scene.” He says. I can feel his overall mood lift and the burst of confidence as he knocks back the rest of his alcohol he’s somehow kept this whole time, for one last try. “How. About. Her?”

I turn to his chosen girl. Immediately, I know that she is different. She is like us, away from the main mass, but for a different reason. She is away because she seems to know better than to get involved in the complicated social standards of the high school prom, while we’re away just because we are too tired to be in the middle of the masses.

And in contrast from the bright, elated colors that drape themselves over our classmates and walls, her lightly tanned skin is partially hidden in a funeral black dress that had been twisted and tortured into ripples and waves around her torso. The waves split and tense as she pushes off the wall and settles herself into an empty chair, crossing one leg over the other, revealing beaten combat boots. Her sooty hair is chopped short and seems to glow under the uncertain lights. As she nods her head to the beat emimiting from the towering speakers, her hair falls away to showcase her ears glistening with silver metal. Everything about her screams danger, yet I feel drawn to her.

“Is she one of our classmates?” I ask Jackson distractedly. I’m trying not to stare, but I’m not doing so good.

“Don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

He looks at me.

“You’re sure.” I amend.

“Good boy.”

“Woof.”

“Are you going to talk to her?”

“Don’t think so. She looks kinda scary though. Look at the piercings.”

“So? Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

“What if she has a date?” I battle with wanting to talk to her and not wanting to talk to her.

Jackson frowns. “I don’t think she does. Look, she’s talking to Samantha.”

“So?”

“Well, most people talk to someone that dull, don’t have dates.”

“That was mean.”

“Just saying. Besides, look she’s smiling. And Samantha’s face doesn’t look scared. I think that is proof she won’t kill you if you talk to her.”

The girl stops talking to Samantha briefly to look in our direction before returning to her supposedly dull conversation.

“Do you think she saw us looking at her?” I ask, apprehension wandering into my tone. Sure, her smile looks friendly, but that didn’t stop me from feeling distressed.

“You mean, did she notice you staring at her?” Jackson teases.

“Shut up.” I punch him in the arm. But as Jackson doubles over laughing, I sneak a glance over at her, but all hints of subtlety are ruined when she catches my eyes with a coy grin. Like she’s known all along that we’ve been talking about her.

Jackson stops laughing. “Well, you have to go talk to her now.” He says flatly.

I swallow nervously.

“Unless you want her to think that you’re a creep.” He says, matter-of-a-factly.

I could feel my last shred of hopes throw itself off the cliff of truth. “Do you really think she’s nice?” I ask.

“Positive.’

I sigh, relenting. “I want red roses at my funeral.”

“Oh just go already.” Rolling his eyes, he pushes me off the wall to fight my way to my fair maiden. Who was watching with a bemused expression.

 _Can scary people look bemused?_ I ask myself before plunging in.

By the time I got through all the sweaty bodies, she had already pulled up an empty chair beside her.

“Took you long enough,” she smiles in a tone that had no bite. I’m pleasantly surprised.

“Well, I’ve never been forced to part a sea of bodies.”

“Moses. Classy.”

I shrug and she smiles again. I’m discovering that I like the way she smiles. Easy and warm. Pure contrast to her appearance.

“Jess.” She says, extending a hand.

“Mark.” I respond, taking it and giving a firm shake. Her hands were warm.

“Have a seat.” She tells me once I release her hand.

I nod. Swallowing before seating myself in a way that I could only hope was graceful.

“I like your hair.” She points to my recently dyed red hair. “It looks good on you.”

I reach up and pat it down, insecurely. “Really?”

She laughs, her coffee eyes capturing the stars. “Of course. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

I like her laugh too. Its bright and true. Maybe she isn’t so scary after all. She seems perfectly cordial. “Thank you then Jess.”

“You’re welcome.”

I expect an awkward silence to follow her voice, but instead she fills the air between us with a starting spark for a fire of conversation.

“Okay.” She turns her full body towards me, eyes blazing and lustrous with life and anticipation. “I have to know. DC or Marvel?”

I blink. Not my usual conversation starter, but this girl is anything but usual. “Marvel. All the way.”

She gasps. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay. Why though? And you can’t say, ‘because Super Woman has nice tits.’”

Her comment catches me off-guard and I burst into a fit of laughter. She waits for me to be done before prompting again. I catch my breath before answering. “I like Marvel because they make the superheroes more realistic. They don’t make superpowers seem like such a gift, unlike DC. And they show more flaws and how they can’t really fit in with society and the normal people.”

She blinks. “I wasn’t expecting that. But fair enough.”

“Why do you like DC?”

She launches into a thoughtful list of reasons. All the while, her eyes have a light that seems to grow as she talks animatedly with her hands. I lean back in my chair, listening to her. I find that I also like her voice. It’s smooth and doesn’t grate on my ears. It’s unique. After she finishes, I poke at her reasoning and we get into a heated debate. Once the Marvel and DC topic has been exhausted, she picks another topic and another debate starts up. And another. And another. And another.

It is not until later on, when I’m home alone with a scrap of paper with a few numbers hastily scrawled on it, that I realize that prom might not be so lame anymore.


End file.
